


Laced

by 1545011



Category: Original Work
Genre: Current Events, Gay, Humiliation, Inanimate Object Porn, Inanimate Objects, M/M, Male - Freeform, Masturbation, Mention - Freeform, Notre Dame - Freeform, Object, Original Character - Freeform, Previous - Freeform, Shoplifting, Theft, frans hals, handjob, haunted painting, implied - Freeform, kinda i guess, lol kinda, posession, small penis humiliation, sph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1545011/pseuds/1545011
Summary: last story of mikael for a bit i think. if you guys want more i will be more than happy to continue with any ideas you must have lmaoi had to i guess/





	Laced

His last session with Larssen had been immaculate. He felt as if he had spent days in his testes as sentient fluid, food for his numerous sperm.  
Although in the last few days, the man had wondered to himself whether or not this lack of energy was normal. It had indeed been a long time since Mikael had felt like this despite considering himself on and off well acquainted with depression.  
‘Episodes.’ He would have to remind himself, since in the last five or so years they have dwindled vastly. ‘It is no different for anyone else.’  
However, it looks like things were coming together; Is that how I should say it? The man’s temperament was becoming difficult again. He found himself becoming almost paranoid coupled with depression. Would it matter in a week?  
The stark change and the uncertainty of it’s duration, of Mikael’s future disposition… It had been indeed a long time since the man we follow now today has feared change. A new track of thinking, the new situation and cast he found himself in, usually he did not fear the future because the circumstances were previously unmet.  
‘It’s because it is negative, is all. I just have had different experiences. It doesn’t matter, everyone gets caught up in their own head.’  
However, Mikael knew that it was less and less normal to be unable to muster up the energy to get up from bed, only capable of ragged breathing and repeated motions for hours on end. And why? He felt as if by repeating the motion, then somehow, it would perhaps ward off the ‘almost’ he feared.  
This coincided with the coverage of the fire which consumed the Notre Dame cathedral. The repetitive actions, swiping at his neck and chewing his fingernails raw, and the hypervigilance, they began on April 15th, before he had a chance to know about it.  
Truthfully, Mikael did not care that much about it. There were many he saw who were talking about it devastatingly, staying on top of the action doggedly, but he could not relate an ounce to it.  
You could write books on the divide between being culturally Christian in upbringing despite no intense familial or even community stress on the importance of worship.  
Mikael was an intelligent man, and indeed understood things like the crossroads of art, culture, religion, and time; Because as a member of mankind these things were tangible and accessible to him. Unlike when thinking about Larssen or perhaps the subconscious ideas which were easily grasped by the Gods but not even perceived of by Mikael, he was perfectly capable of analyzing the situation in this way.  
However, the situation did not grip him in such a way and would not have done so even if he was not immediately in his inner turmoil. If anything, it set a new perspective to the man that he seemed disconnected.  
The tragedy seemed almost punctual in the state of the world, Mikael knew and understood that people took it as such. But, the logical human brain which dominated Mikael’s personal judgement squarely announced that it was coincidence, there was no message from the event.  
The onset of his depressive episode coinciding at the same time of hearing the news but not being initiated by the news did make Mikael fear almost lucidly that there was something terrible approaching; Beginning to manifest in the fire and his mind, his body, the world. What was causing this lapse of peace?  
‘Just a phase, it will be over in a month, if not for a week…’ Mikael continually said to himself, and then continued to breathe painfully and deeply instead of getting up to do the few things he had planned for the day. ‘I need to find some way to motivate myself…’ The man then set himself to searching.  
“Back to focusing on music, on writing, on these songs…” He muttered again and again to himself. “If I- If I put this off again the album will be delayed by a month…” He shook his head and spoke out loud to himself to get a grip of it all.  
He pulled on shorts and an oversized T shirt, it wasn’t the same one he had slept in or over, but it was the one which he had slept in two nights ago. Mikael did not have any clean clothes at the moment, just scattered and almost presentable garments. Later, he should do at least one load just to feel better, he made a mental reminder.  
Passing by the hallway mirror, he ran a hand through his messy hair. It felt heavy, and made him sigh. He had showered three days ago, and already his hair had become dirty despite not doing anything physical, or anything at all. He knew well enough that cleaning up and returning to basic hygiene would at least prime himself for a better mood, and decided to humor it a little bit before returning to writing.  
Climbing into the shower, and exiting not less than 7 minutes later, Mikael found himself left with only his half-dirty clothes to climb into once more. It felt terrible to be pulling on them once more, despite having only worn his shirt two times in the last 3 days prior, and with little if any visible signs of shabbyness. I suppose this is what happens when you put it all off.  
As he sat down to write, his phone buzzed. He stretched, and opened it.  
‘I cant think of anything, we were going to the natl museum today. Come along?’ The text read, from the drummer he was working with currently.  
It was very relieving to know that he was not the only one who was suffering like this.  
‘Ill meet u there’ He responded instantaneously. Mikael then stood up from his chair and now set his mind on getting ready.  
He replaced his shorts with jeans that he had not worn but had slept on, and slipped a hoodie on as well to covered the wrinkled nightshirt. Still, the man felt inclined to dress himself up more. Because of the short notice, he sprayed himself with fragrance in hopes to mask whatever residual must was apparent.  
Mikael climbed into his car this time, hearing his phone ring with more notifications as he shut the door.  
‘Crazy all the stuff that happened in france. think it would be nice and appreciate the arts some more right’  
Mikael felt obliged to lie. ‘i hear you’ Was what he replied with and then made way to the museum.  
He felt like he looked out of place as he began his trip through the gallery. ‘Where are u i dont see u’ His friends continued to text him, but Mikael did not care to respond. He easily found himself lost among the paintings, going further back through the years.  
At some point, it kind of stuck to him that these were people at their time. It was not modern people dressed in old-time clothes, these were the people of their time. The conclusion he went to next was that this was what most people think of when they begin to see them all here, in one place.  
There was so much information here. Mikael strode faster than the other patrons as he made his way through the gallery. Because of this, he felt like he looked crazy. The path began to wind, it followed through the building almost like a cubic snake; It was long hallway, then short hallway, and then long hallway again.  
As Mikael’s walk turned deeper into the gallery, there was less and less people. Soon enough, he was alone. It was only the sound of his footsteps keeping him company among the numerous portraits. Surely, there was much to tell behind each face. The eyes of each painting followed Mikael until he passed too far from them, but likewise they were replaced with the ghost of another man trapped in the frame eyeing him as he made his way further. The impressions of them likely in their prime, completely secure with their fate and appearance, each piece an individual. It was like being there, almost. There was so much to infer.  
Finally, he was near the exit. His hoodie lay across his frame unkempt from his rapid pace, one sleeve rolled up and the other folded down over his hand, lopsided. His hair was equally flustered, and perhaps remained a bit wet from his earlier shower.  
Knowing now that there was nobody else for him to visit here, Mikael stood and breathed in deeply. He peered up at the ceiling, at his surroundings.  
‘SLUTET AV BAROCKEN’ The sign at the start of the hallway read. The green and white door at the end of the hallway, obviously was the emergency exit. He would have to circle back if he wanted to leave.  
For a minute, Mikael took in the scene. It seemed like such a secure resting place for the people here, the contrast of their ornate frames and painterly detail against the stark white walls of the museum made the hallway look futuristic. He stood tall and admired them from a distance, drinking in the silent meeting.  
12 portraits positioned in the hallway, their eyes all upon him. The scene was eerie, the canvases and frames were different but they were all of similar size.  
Still from the head of the hallway, under the ‘End of Baroque’ sign, Mikael looked to the door once more, and then swiveled behind him tossing his hair over his shoulder as he turned.  
On the camera peeking into the hallway, the lens was dark. There was no indication of function, unlike the one peeking out of the hallway and back into the short wrap-around, which was indeed blinking with life.  
He then decided once again to look at them closer. In this private place, it felt more personal as if he could experience the longwave impression of the people more fully.  
Each appearance was striking, drawing him in, and then losing interest just as quickly. He hardly glanced over the name of the artist and subject, before continuing through the hallway.  
Until, he saw a set of eyes that commanded him to stop. His body was paralyzed by the gaze, the expression. His spirit could scream.  
It looked like Larssen. Just like him, it was him. If it was another, it would have been a cruel joke on behalf of Earth.  
Open mouth gawk, Mikael cautiously approached this painting near the end of the hallway.  
Although you could not identify why, his face was symmetrical but appeared not to be. It was white and cold, and the soft lighting met rigidly with the shadows he intended. It was the same eyes he had seen, he had waited for. Alone, together with him again. The two black marble eyes deliberately spying on him.  
Mikael shuddered, his knees buckled. He felt sick like he could cry. It was like something was happening to him or like he had just eaten something that made him incredibly dehydrated in an instant.  
Drooling, slapping his face and daring to look at the painting again, he shakily stood up. If he could talk, it would be hand-cranked gibberish.  
His hair was similar, but it reached over his shoulders and was straight as ever. Blackish brown, if you wanted to look closer you could perhaps find that it was a walnut color and despite it’s sleekness there was identifiable stay hairs over his eyebrows. Parted in the middle so neatly, so as to let the world get a clear view of God’s face. Behind his head, and this was new - an extraordinarily broad brimmed hat, at an angle. It reminded Mikael of a halo, but it was indeed a hat; The stunted cone-like cap of it appearing faintly over the brim.  
Hints of a beard and moustache, it was unkempt but it did not mar his elegance. His thick lips uncurled, hardly frowning. The clothes he wore were large, his pale hands peeking out of his sleeves delicately.  
In one hand he grasped a pair of tanned leather gloves, and in the other was a bow. Across his chest and meeting at his belt was a braided baldric. The matching quiver of the bow peeked over his right shoulder.  
The man felt like he was choking, viewing him like this. He suppressed a gasp, instead going to read the panel of information to the left of it.  
‘Niemelä - Reizende Boogschutter’  
1623, Frans Hals  
Translated, the small blurb read as:  
Early portrait of the travelling archer J. Niemelä of Finland, who hunted primarily rabbits and other small game. Originally not a commission, however the subject demanded on paying Hals for his efforts. Hals later sketched the man in 1649 along with French philosopher René Descartes both on route to Sweden.  
The panel on the wall was simple paper taped in place, it seemed temporary. Additionally, what set it apart from the other paintings was that it was the smallest of all of them. Despite this, it did appear to belong to the set in the hallway.  
Usually, when met with a nonsensical urge. Most people, including Mikael, are quick to stifle it. However, in meeting this portrait, Mikael was completely at the whim of it. We often use the word compelled too lightly, because in this moment Mikael was compelled as if he was under the influence of some higher spirit. How many people perhaps have been truly compelled to proceed in their actions?  
He should have looked back to the camera, but he could not do so in the moment. He gripped the frame of the painting easily, gingerly lowering it off of the hook and stumbling towards the emergency exit.  
After doing so, he looked back quickly to the camera. It remained out of order. With an excited breath, he forcefully opened the emergency exit and was immediately met with the alarm blaring. From deeper in the museum, you could hear startles and clamor.  
Mikael ran to his car, and with his arms wrapped around the painting of Larssen he looked identical to the others fleeing the ‘fire’ from inside of the museum. He flipped it over in his passenger seat and set his mind to driving home with him.  
Any thoughts of being caught, arrested, or perceived as suspicious didn’t occur to him at all even though they should have. His phone buzzed with more texts from his friends as he drove, but he was already shaking, as he gripped the wheel.  
He could hardly contain himself, he felt like he was in a cocktail mixer. He pulled into the driveway with his dick half-hard in his pants, from Larssen of course.  
He stormed upstairs with him, the man trapped in the sculpted frame. Amazing, he didn’t feel like he was seen.  
Half of him thought he should await some force to come stop him, to take him away for his theft whether it be police, his friends complete with scolding for his terrible erotic lapse of judgement, or whatever else have you.  
He placed the painting of Larssen face up on his table. This was the same table that Mikael had passed out at, where he had pissed himself in fear and spoiled the underside of it with his cum.  
Mikael couldn’t help himself but hold his breath as he began to caress the painting. He could smell the sweat and stink of himself in his dirty clothes, and feel his face flushed bright pink. He licked his lips, biting himself and being unsure of what to do now, that he had his mate captive in the frame in front of him.  
Just shy of 400 years old, the painting had obviously had some restorative work done. It still appeared to be in impeccable condition thanks to it.  
Secretly, Mikael was horribly jealous of the worker who had maintained the canvas like that. If he had tried to explain this feeling though he would probably end up brushing it off embarrassed that he had outed his ideas like that.  
“I love him. Oh god, I love him… I love him… Love, love…. Love.” He hummed and hugged himself, finding his hands coming back to Larssen’s portrait again and again as he could simply not just pull himself away. His penis pushed against the denim of his jeans, wishing to erect further.  
When you come to think about it, what could Mikael even do with this portrait? Why would you have these feelings when the subject is an object. Sure, it does represent Larssen, but he is actually largely intangible. These thoughts did not immediately occur to him in his dazed erotic cloudy mind.  
Cautiously as ever, Mikael remembered he had plastic wrap in one of his kitchen drawers. Unbuttoning himself and pushing his pants down to his knees as he removed himself from his position leaning over the portrait on the table, he quickly went to fetch it.  
His erection swung lewdly albeit unimpressively off of his tall frame as he moved.  
Now with the plastic wrap and Larssen’s portrait in hand, he hurried to his bedroom. He threw both down onto his unmade mattress, and turned to shut the door.  
Maybe this gesture was because Mikael still felt like he needed to hide this attraction, or because he knew he had stolen the portrait.  
For obvious reasons, Mikael felt like he was burning up. He removed his hoodie ungracefully and after hastily tearing it off of himself he tossed it onto the floor. Despite the force which could be identified as anger or aggression behind his choice of action, Mikael did not feel like he could apply himself like this to Larssen, here. In his mind, maybe he was thinking that if he could split his aggression and his love apart, he could save all of his sweet and ginger actions for his boyfriend in the frame.  
“I love you, I would love you, I would love to watch over you and have your beautiful eyes follow me, honey…” He monologues, hoping that Larssen would respond. In turn, he was, he could feel it.  
Obsessed with this painting, Mikael truly now had a permanent object for his affections.  
“For a long time, I love you. You are so sweet, so lovely. Your hands are so beautiful, I know there is nobody else to take care of you like this. I have to, you are trapped. You can’t take care of yourself, dear…” He continued, as if Larssen the humanoid had become paralyzed and he needed a caregiver.  
These words he currently spewed, were not predatory or infantilizing in context, but instead showcased that Mikael was prepared to devote himself as a caregiver to his boyfriend who he now found was a painting.  
Lovingly, caressing the protected canvas as he went, Mikael wrapped Larssen’s portrait in plastic. Finally, there was an appropriate barrier.  
All the while doing so, he felt his penis throb and engorge further. Now fully erect, and with his right hand gripping Larssen’s portrait, Mikael engaged himself.  
Was this a way of worship? Between people, this could potentially show devotion if the temperament was right…  
Despite the uncertainty, Mikael was certain of his attraction to Larssen and his own conviction in this being a natural response to his beauty.  
He jerked himself off aggressively, pounding away at his lower abdomen. His balls felt like they were brimming with fluid, and his whole body felt hungry.  
Each stroke elicited a long moan from him, it made his penis harden and twitch for more stimulation. He whimpered, thinking of Larssen’s enormous penises and how small, useless, and pathetic his own was compared to him.  
Every time since Larssen’s previous visit, Mikael has had to think of these things… About how his own penis was useless despite its restored size, and could never be used to pleasure another. He was right, in part, despite that these phrases were not genuine and where at most erotic play-rhetoric. Mikael could no longer get hard to other people, he had to think of this other man to do so.  
At long last, his cock felt like it was unable to handle any more. He cried out in pleasure, his expressive submissive and his penis visibly throbbing in a display of desperation. He looked down at it, in full view of Larssen’s terrible gaze. It was like it was judging him, but it was also looking right at him.  
He loosely gripped the frame, uncoordinated. Mikael’s own small penis poised and ready to release the little sperm he had onto the plastic wrapped boy in the frame.  
The man bit his lip and came, muffling his own cries, it was plenty for a human man but he liked to think that the man in the frame with the sleek dark brown hair would have called it disgusting and pathetic. He sighed, resigning himself from his previous action as his penis throbbed exhaustedly while it returned to it’s flaccid form.  
He fetched a tissue, and dabbed up the semen from the barrier. He kissed the younger man’s thick lips before resting him on the floor next to his bed. He bowed, thanking him for letting him do that. If he had been mad, he would like to have imagined that Larssen would forgive him before he had the thought to muster an apology even within his head.  
It was now 10 in the evening and sure enough now was as good a time as any for MIkael to go to sleep once more. As he undressed from his smelly clothes, his phone fell from his pocket.  
The notifications from Mikael’s friends were still present.  
‘Fire in notre dame, now fire in stockholm, what does the world have against art right lol’  
‘No seriously are you ok we couldnt find you anywhere’  
Mikael furrowed his thick brow as he looked at these texts. It was beginning to be irritating to him that he would have had to feign concern for it. Stuff like that happens all the time. It would have had to have restorative work done sooner or later, all art decays. It is not any less special to have restoration applied, what would you say to the work done on it in the 19th century, then? If that was an independent piece done, it would already be considered a classic. In the long run, it was no big deal; He wanted to say but could not bring himself to lash out like this.  
‘sorry i fell asleep. + i know right’ He replied disgustedly, throwing his phone down once more.  
But what does it mean, for him to have met Larssen’s portrait at a time when the general consensus of the state of mankind was in such uproar?  
In his sleep, God revealed two truths to the man. 

Larssen really was God, who then desired to become human.  
And the fire in Paris had nothing to do with any divine message about the future of Earth, it was all carelessness.  
Upon waking, Mikael could not recall this information.  
The news coverage in the following days detailed that there was a false fire at the National Museum. While initially declaring that there was no damage or stolen property from the museum, it was corrected on April 24th, 2019 that there was one missing portrait from their baroque gallery.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback appreciated as always please tell me what you think or what you would like to see next!


End file.
